bid you farewell,’ said he, groping to get hold of my hand. ‘Will you not breakfast with us Duncan,’ said I. ‘No,’ said he, ‘I am thinking that it is best to steal away, for it will break my heart to take leave of your parents, and—’. ‘And who Duncan?’ said I. ‘And you,’ said he: ‘indeed, but it is best Duncan,’ said I, ‘we will all breakfast together for the last time, and then take a formal and kind leavo of each other. We did breakfast together, and as the conversation turned on former days, it became highly interesting to us all. When my father had returned thanks to heaven for our meal, we knew what was coming, and began to look at each other. Duncan rose, and after wo had all loaded him with our blessings and warmest wishes, ho embraced my parents and me. He turned about. His eyes said plainly, there is somebody still wanting, but his heart was so full he could not speak. ‘What is become of Mary?' said my father;—Mary was gone. We searched the house, the garden, and the houses of all the cottagers, but she was no where to be found, Poor lovelorn forsaken Mary. She had hid herself in the ancient yew that grows in front of the old ruin, that she might see her lover depart, without herself being seen, and might indulge in all the luxury of woe.
I must pass over Duncan’s journey to the north Highlands, for want of room; but on the evening of the sixth day after leaving my father’s house, he reached the mansion-house of Glenellich, which stands in a little beautiful woody strath, commanding a view of the Den, Caledonian Sea, and part of the Hebrides: every avenue, tree, and rock, was yet familiar to Duncan’s recollection. He had, without discovering himself, learned from a peasant
